A Thorn Defends
by Mizamour
Summary: [Snow White from the Queen's perspective] I would look at her and see the life in her eyes and send her out into the garden, away from these dark halls. Sometimes I would watch her. It was the closest I got to the sun.
1. Flight

_"A thorn defends the rose, harming only those who would steal the blossom."_

_- Chinese Proverb_

I never hated her. Not that I didn't want to… but she was like a small animal, one of those soft fluffy creatures with huge innocent eyes that you just can't hate - it's impossible. Like all such creatures, she inspired protectiveness…and I was, for a while. Very protective. I told myself it was for her, she could not be damaged by the world… she didn't know it, not yet. A cruel world, inside and out. And she was so innocent. I couldn't stand her innocence. She grew as a kitten that has been fluffed, brushed, petted, and shown nothing but good will, sweet and soft and accustomed to the good life, as such creatures are apt to do. Why wouldn't she, being raised in a nest of roses.

She grew and played and sang. Her hair flowed long and her eyes gazed large and her cheeks glowed a delicate blush.

I grew old and worked and dealt with the kingdom's less savory parts. My hands were rough and my arms were scarred and my eyes were narrow and cold.

She said she loved me, called me sister, gave me the sincere shallow kisses that pressed her affection into my skin. I would look at her and see the life in her eyes and send her out into the garden, away from these dark halls.

Sometimes I would watch her. It was the closest I got to the sun.

She was in the garden more and more, her youth began to intertwine with the greens, her face would glow so full of the sunlight that there was no room for more, and she would come in from rapture, complaining softly of nothing to do. She didn't like to work at the garden. I gave her small tasks, things to do around the garden, the grounds, things to take weight off the servants' resentful shoulders. There was unrest in the kingdom, it was only a time before it erupted.

They planned their revolt, and I came to depend more and more on her. She would see to the caring of the place while I saw to what I had to do, while I stalked duty's halls and grew shadowy among dust and scrolls.

It was only right that she would do this. She never showed interest in my scrolls, in my histories or matters of rule. She liked books, all children do… she loved the faerie stories, rose and azure pictures of sky and sea lights. She never could love the ground. To dig into existence, to bury empty fists in dirt and see the brown-grey beneath yellow nails… that was too close to death for her. She flew.

I always imagined she would fly to the clouds someday, maybe lighted in a rainbow, soaring to another life. She did not seem to belong to this world.

I wanted her to fly away, especially when Gerel came. He was young and honest, unlike so many in my work. He came to the castle in a stride of wanting, wanting good and truth and rightness and ego and love. He searched with me for the first few… he found the last with her. They would stand in the garden, her eyes lit up and reflecting blue, full of happiness, his eyes eager and desiring. He raced through work in those days, dying for the moment when he could shove aside the last reality-encrusted paper and escape to the garden and her.

I loved him for his ideals, she loved him for his love and what he saw as his soul.

It isn't hard to guess which would win.

* * *

A/N: I'm very excited about this piece, hoping to continue... I have several quotes I plan to head each chapter with. 

Review if you think I should continue. Thank you for reading!

-Mizamour


	2. Earth

_The red rose whispers of passion,_

_And the white rose breathes of love;_

_O, the red rose is a falcon,_

_And the white rose is a dove._

_John Boyle O'Reilly_

She never spoke, those days. Not where I could hear. Her looks of hope and words of love were given to Gerel in warm bursts of feeling, breathing out all her soul in those sighs. There were naturally none left when she came out of the sun-soaked garden.

I turned the earth carefully. Unlike the other rebirths of spring, the smell of new earth can bring up remembrances, things old and forgotten. Things with no place in the heart of new love.

In between the garden eternities, there was a blur called day, the only part which was not seen through the black-crossed window, overlooking the flowers. During this time, we dealt with the parchments of kingdom and rule. He counted in the treasury, under the ray of dustbeam-danced light. Gold and silver and tarnished treasure slipping easily through his palms, fingers drawing a slight scratch of ink on the cream-pure paper. What would it have been like for you, do you think, to look at a seraphim when one had known only of cherubs?

I had always valued order. But after each parchment was read and out of use, I began to save the ones he had touched.

She no longer confided in me. I turned to the inscribed souls, lives stretched onto paper and bound into a volume of history. They would talk, but not of everything, and not of all truth. Among historians, there is always bias. I longed for a heart to keep in a box, to listen to its secrets, to tell it mine. A free heart I could not gain.

The prince Gerel objected to my desire to return her to me. She would not be happy, he said, in this dark, dank place with me and my dry histories. He renounced my thoughts into the back of his mind, and stayed in the garden. I came out for one time, tore her from his half-formed dream-web, and left. She would stay and keep confidence for me. He was no longer needed here.

The pure rose wept.

Is it selfish to bring flowers indoors? They will die, but for while they are alive, one can see them near, closer than before, and breathe in the aura that holds out the shadow.


	3. Below

Below

Ch 3 of A Thorn Defends

"Footfalls echo in the memory, Down the passage which we did not take, Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden."

-T.S. Eliot

Unrest was the best of the descriptions.

Gerel no longer came. He had returned to work with me, the next day after, refusing to take his seat. He sorted papers, silently, dustily, for several minutes – then leapt forward, threw down the sheaf, and pleaded with me – hair in disarray, falling over wide, stricken eyes – for the return of his love. "She is happy with me," he said. "I will give her all that she desires." It was not until later, when the walls had shut their ears from the shouting, and the storm gathered at the corners of the windows, that he said what he meant, but cordiality prevented –

"I love her – you do not!"

I sent him away. Through the ceiling, I could hear a noise at her window, a faint scratching and flutter. One last letter. It could not hurt – she would go tomorrow, departing for our cousin's. A house in the country, out of our province's bounds. She would be in their care for now.

Outside, the servants met and muttered, clandestine meetings in the trees, dreaming more of revolt than rapture. Maybe they were the same. She had charmed them, before. They would listen to her and believe there was goodwill and grace in the house of the Vartan. But now she remained upstairs, penning half-scribbled missives of love and turning tearful, downcast eyes to the portraits in the regal halls. She pushed her attendant, when she came to dress her. The task of morale came to me.

I appeared before them – the few who would come - calling a gathering. I promised higher wages while trying to smile, the low-declined figures of yesterday's counting-house pressing against my eyelids. I spoke unsteadily, telling them of what they already knew – fallen crops elsewhere, wars pressing at the edges of neighboring lands. I tried to urge loyalty.

"Our king was generous!" one called. "What's happening now?"

"Conservation," I said. My smile was strained.

After all, the door to the count-house was locked. The ghosts of ancestors' riches would not escape the windows, as they had the hands of my forbears. It was true - the king had been generous. But again, he had never ruled.

The face of the duke still spun, smudged, in the mirror. He smirked when I appeared, as my clothes grew more worn, declaiming each time that I was prettier than ever. He fingered his rings, swathed by the smoke, and smiled.

I had to send her away, just as I had had to put him away. Magic had worked – once – to subdue him, though it did not satisfy his greed. I would not rely on that again.

She left in our last coach. One of the remaining loyals, Hunterian, drove.

I returned to the work-room, shifted a few paper relics of former coins.

Upstairs, the mirror laughed.

----

A/N: Hey all! I am so sorry, especially for those of you who have stuck with the story so long, that I never updated sooner! I'm still enthusiastic about the story idea, though I lapsed for a bit – I tend to start pieces a few at a time, and then follow some and not others. But I finally got the writing bug again for this one, so here it is – I hope it works out alright. To those who reviewed the last two chapters – thank you so much! And so sorry if the last chapter was a bit ambiguous – it will be clearer soon. For this chapter… I added more surreal-elements of the original story, which will also be explained, as well as (I have to admit) influences from my French-Revolution studies.  The political climate, in this world, is similar (though on a much smaller scale) to pre-Revolution France. Gerel is an OC. Thanks so much for reading!


End file.
